


Let's Go to Bed Before You Say Something Real

by alongwayfromhome



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Aimee thinks Nick is being a child, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, M/M, Pining Nick, THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN BUT IT DID, and Harry just has heart eyes, and Nick doesn't know how to deal with his feelings, i don't know honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongwayfromhome/pseuds/alongwayfromhome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just—all right, so Harry was his mate, and they spent an unreasonable amount of time together. Sometimes Harry stole his jumpers and sometimes he stayed at Nick’s because it was convenient or whatever drunken excuse they could come up with. Sometimes—all right, fine, always—Harry slept in Nick’s bed because Nick couldn’t be arsed to get a new mattress for the guest room, and the sofa was lumpy as Harry complained the first time it had happened.</p><p>He was fucked. He was so completely and totally fucked.</p><p>or, the one where everything goes to hell after the infamous Brits, Nick pines, Harry's oblivious, and Aimee thinks they're both idiots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Go to Bed Before You Say Something Real

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting around since I fell into the Gryles blackhole right after the Brit Awards. It was never going to see the light of day but then I figured why not? So here we are. Hope you all enjoy! xo
> 
> Title comes from I Always Knew by The Vaccines.
> 
> None of this happened, none of it's real, complete work of fiction... whatever sort of disclaimer I need to say goes here.

Nick didn’t pine. He wasn’t bloody Fincham, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t do love and feelings; he did one-night stands and no strings attached sex, because it was easy and moral-less.

Aimee had once described him the same way. He didn’t argue.

It was just—all right, so Harry was his mate, and they spent an unreasonable amount of time together. Sometimes Harry stole his jumpers and sometimes he stayed at Nick’s because it was _convenient_ or whatever drunken excuse they could come up with. Sometimes—all right, fine, _always_ —Harry slept in Nick’s bed because Nick couldn’t be arsed to get a new mattress for the guest room, and the sofa was _lumpy_ as Harry complained the first time it had happened.

He was fucked. He was so completely and totally fucked.

It’s just—Harry was leaving soon. He only had a week or so left with him, and it shouldn’t have mattered but it _did_. Nick hated to think about what he was going to do when his Pop Star was gone, off living the dream and fulfilling the lives of adolescent girls everywhere.

 _His Pop Star._ Nick’s not sure when that happened, but it did and he couldn’t change it. Harry was his. He was, more or less, Harry’s. It was fine, it really was—they just didn’t talk about it. It just _was._

But then the Brits rolled around, and Nick was honestly pretty fucking chuffed with himself for not having a mental breakdown.

It’s not that anything significant happened, except for a snog from James Cordon—standard really—and Harry picking him out on stage while they accepted their award—also standard, because it was Nick and he was Harry and really what would anyone expect? It was everything _after_ , everything that followed the few days after the Brits that were the worst part.

Harry was like a fucking _puppy_ , following Nick wherever he went, which normally he would have liked if he was being honest. Nick liked being the center of attention, especially from those he would be shagging later on. But he honestly didn’t think he’d be shagging Harry. Because, honestly—it was _Harry._ But he supposed that’s why what happened did, as well.

It started out when the Brits finished and Nick knew he had to at least make an appearance at one of the many after-parties that would be happening. It didn’t really matter where he ended up, as long as someone saw him so he could leave and go back to his flat for a few hours of sleep before he had to be at the station.

Because, honestly, whose idea had it been to have an award show in the middle of the week? _Honestly._

When One Direction won their award, he figured they’d be off celebrating at every after-party they could get in to, but then Harry had come up to him and asked him where he was headed and, honestly, Nick thought he was going to lose his mind.

Of course, Nick was headed where Harry wasn’t. “Let’s meet back at yours?” he’d said, as if it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe on any other day it wouldn’t have been, but that night? For some reason, it caused Nick to have an internal meltdown.

“Sure,” he’d croaked out, as if he hadn’t watched Harry’s arse as he’d walked away or memorized his dimples from the way he was smiling so big because of their award. And Nick was proud of them, he really was—Harry especially, obviously—but he was focused elsewhere for the time being.

Nick knew he shouldn’t have been surprised when Harry showed up at his flat just as he was getting there. They weren’t alone, of course, it was Nick and Harry and Aimee and Pixie and whoever else had floated back to Nick’s. He couldn’t really tell because his mind was fogged with alcohol and exhaustion, and there were so many bloody lights thanks to Harry Styles the bloody international pop star.

_His Pop Star._

Nick would have smashed his head against a wall if he could have because he was being absolutely bloody ridiculous. It was just _Harry_. It’s not like anything changed, or anything had happened that would have made him acting like he was okay on _any_ planet, and yet he couldn’t stop.

So instead, he pulled out another bottle of alcohol and took a drink straight from it, and continued to do that for the rest of the night, because if he was going to hit rock bottom he figured he might as well do it pissed off his arse.

His group of friends were in and out all night, but eventually they all left and it was just he and Harry sprawled out on the couch. Nick took a quick look at his watch and groaned before tossing his head back and closing his eyes. “I have to go to work in an hour,” he muttered, hating himself more with each passing second.

Harry chuckled. “You do.”

“I don’t _want_ to go to work in an hour.”

“You sound like a five year old,” Harry quipped, and Nick didn’t have to open his eyes to know he was smirking at him.

“You’re one to talk, young Harold.”

Nick wanted to kick himself for the way his heart actually skipped in his chest at the sound of Harry’s laugh, deep and low; Nick was pretty sure he could actually _feel_ the way his chest rumbled with it.

 _Christ._ He was so fucked.

Nick pulled himself off of the couch, because he knew he had to at least go to his bed or else he was going to severely regret it in the morning. “Are you staying here then?”

He furrowed his eyebrows and Nick wanted to slap the look off of his face. _For the love of the Queen,_ he thought to himself. “What time are you going to the studio?”

Nick glanced at his watch again. “‘Bout an hour, I think.”

“Anyone special on the show?”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Everyone worth having will be entirely too hungover to be anywhere near the radio station, so I’ll probably just bother Finchy all morning.”

“I’ll come with you then,” Harry said, and it was so easy and quick, as if what he was saying was a no-brainer.

Nick frowned. “What?”

“I’ll come,” he repeated with a shrug. “Haven’t been on with you since you started. It’d be fun, yeah?” He smiled and, oh—all right, then. That was a definite heart skipping moment. _Fuck._

“Well, yeah then, all right.” He grinned then, because Harry was looking at him sort of funny and he was probably wondering why Nick was acting so bloody mental.

It would be fine, he told himself, because it was just Harry and he would probably either still be too drunk or hungover to contribute too much to the show, but it would be nice to have him there regardless. Besides, Harry was right, he hadn’t been to the station in awhile, so Nick figured he was due for a visit.

But then Harry fell into bed beside Nick and he realized, like a punch to the gut, how fucked he was. Completely and utterly fucked.

“Hmmph?” Harry asked, face buried in the pillow next to Nick’s.

Well, apparently he’d said just how fucked he was out loud. He sighed and rubbed his eyes before turning out the light. “Nothing, go to sleep Pop Star.” Before he even got the words out, Harry was snoring softly beside him.

&&&

Harry was still drunk, Nick was hungover, and Finchy was angry.

But, to be fair, it wasn’t Nick’s fault the bloody Brits were held during the week and he had an obligation to attend after parties, and it wasn’t Nick’s fault Harry was nineteen and could hold his liquor quite well actually.  So, it honestly wasn’t Nick’s fault that Finchy was glaring at him over his computer monitor.

Except it was, because the pop star sitting next to him was drunk and slurring into a microphone even slower than he normally talked, which Nick didn’t even think was possible.

He honestly didn’t think Finchy needed to be so bent out of sorts though, because it’s not as if they were doing anything too terrible. Nick was even acting relatively normal, at least compared to how he’d been the night before. When he woke up after only an hour and a half of sleep, Harry was curled up beside him and he decided he was fine. It was just Harry, and he’s just had a few too many drinks so his head had been fucked. It was just _Harry_. He could handle Harry.

When they got to the station, Finchy’s head looked like it was about to explode because—all right, yes, Nick was a _little_ late, and Harry was wearing his suit from the night before, looking a bit fucked out of his mind, but bloody hell, at least Nick was _there._ So after waving off Finchy and getting situated, he jumped right into the show and tried not to think any more about the pop star sitting by his side.

He did relatively well, and he’s fairly certain he only mentioned Harry a handful of times after he “left”—which actually meant Harry was just lounging on a couch in the corner of the studio, waiting until Nick finished, but he definitely wasn’t going to think about that either.

When the show was over and Nick was free to go home, where he was going to immediately fall into bed and sleep for the next eight hours, he woke Harry up. “Up you go, Pop Star, time to head out.”

“Show’s over already?”

Nick was absolutely _not_ going to focus on the way Harry’s voice got deep and scratchy just from sleep, and instead just nodded. “That it is. You slept through the end.”

“Now what?” he asked, taking a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes as he sat up straight and then stretched, a band of skin revealed from his dress shirt, now thoroughly untucked, rising above his trousers. Not that Nick was staring or anything.

“Home, Pop Star. I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody knackered. ‘Bout to fall asleep standing if you don’t get a move on.”

Harry laughed and smiled fondly at Nick before getting up. The two of them said their goodbyes before heading out of the studio. Thankfully there wasn’t a group of fans waiting for Harry when they got outside, so they just grabbed a cab.

Nick rattled off his address to the cabbie while Harry sat beside him, head resting against the glass of the window. “Rough morning then?”

Nick loved the smile that fell on Harry’s lips, eyes still closed. “Not too bad,” he said quietly. “I like coming to the station.”

Nick scoffed and rolled his eyes, because honestly he found that hard to believe. Nick enjoyed his job for the most part, except waking up before the sun rose and having to be a responsible adult during the week so he often missed any late night gigs his friends were always attending. But yes, he liked his job enough, just not enough that it was something he’d choose to do just for the hell of it.

“What?” Harry said, picking his head up and, dammit—did he have to pull that furrowed eyebrow expression every five seconds? Honestly.

“I just don’t think anyone _likes_ coming down to the station at half six in the morning when they’re still drunk and haven’t slept at all, but maybe that’s just my age then, yeah?”

“Like you said, I was still drunk, so it wasn’t so bad,” Harry said, and Nick would have slapped the smirk off his face if he had the energy. “But I did like it. I like watching you work.”

Well, what was Nick supposed to say to that?

When they got back to Nick’s, he paid the cabbie and ushered Harry towards the front door. It wasn’t until they were inside and Nick was slipping off his jacket that he realized Harry was there still. “Oh,” he said, stopping in his tracks on the way to the kitchen, Harry not far behind. “I didn’t—you’re still here.”

He laughed at that and scrunched up his face, happy but confused. “Yeah?”

Nick released a breath of air and kept walking to the kitchen. “I mean, you’re _here._ ” Nick got out a kettle and filled it with water before setting it on the hob. He turned back to Harry, who was across from him, leaning against the island with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’d say yeah again, but I’m not sure that would get us anywhere.”

Nick huffed and narrowed his eyes. He was completely knackered, hung over, and Harry was just… in his kitchen. Wearing his suit from the night before. He had bags under his eyes and he looked as exhausted as Nick felt, but he still had a small smile on his face, because _of course_ he did. “Don’t you have a three million dollar home to go to, Harold?”

Nick knew the answer to that before he even spoke the words, so he wasn’t sure why he had even brought it up. Still, he watched as Harry rose his shoulders, not taking his eyes off of Nick. “Don’t feel like it.”

To anyone else who didn’t know Harry, that would have sounded childish and ridiculous, because honestly, a three million dollar flat and it was just going to waste because he was a pop star and he _”didn’t feel like”_ going back to it. But Nick understood what he was actually saying; Harry was grateful for everything in his life, immensely so, but he absolutely _hated_ being at his home alone. Nick blamed it on his bandmates and his lifestyle—Harry didn’t get a moment alone, ever, and he was used to the constant presence of other people around him at almost all times—but it was also just Harry. That was just the type of person he was.

Nick may not have understood it, because while he liked being the center of attention, he liked having time to himself as well. So no, he didn’t understand why Harry chose to kip at his mates’ houses instead of in what was a huge king sized bed with the best down comforter known to man. He didn’t understand the need to constantly need people surrounding you.

He did, however, understand not wanting to sleep alone. He understood that very, very well. Aimee had said to him once that that was the reason he only had one bed and an impossibly uncomfortable couch was because if anyone stayed over at Nick’s then they’d need to sleep in his bed. Nick had brushed her off at the time, because how ridiculous did that make him sound? But a part of him always wondered if maybe she was right. But then, really, if he was needy and clingy then so be it; that was just his personality, and anyone who didn’t like it could fuck right off, thank you very much.

The kettle started whistling, pulling Nick back to the present, and he got out two cups and two tea bags and started fixing the two drinks. When he was satisfied, he passed one over to Harry who smiled and took it graciously. They just stood in silence, drinking their tea and watching one another like it was any other day.

That was the thing, though, Nick realized. It _was_ any other day, and having Harry in his kitchen like that really wasn’t all that out of the ordinary. Harry probably knew Nick’s flat better than he knew his own home.

When they finished their tea, Nick wordlessly put the cups in the sink before turning back around to face Harry, who was much closer. “All right that I’m here then, yeah?”

Nick rolled his eyes, because honestly, what was he going to say? _No, Harry Styles, go back to your mansion and leave me be to pine and generally be completely and totally pathetic all by myself._ “Well I’m not about to kick you out now, am I? Made you tea and the like.”

Harry smirked, his dimple appearing. Of course. “You’ve been acting weird. Everything all right?”

Nick crossed his arms in front of his chest and slumped his shoulders a bit, leaning more heavily against the counter behind him. “’M fine, but a certain mate of mine is an absolutely horrid influence and had me out all night and then I had to work this morning. I don’t bounce back as quickly as certain young pop stars.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled as he took another step forward, almost completely closing the distance between them. “You sure then?”

And, yeah, all right, so Nick was having a hard time keeping his thought process straight and coherent, because Harry Styles, the _menace,_ was closing in on his personal space and he didn’t know what to do. Nick felt like his brain was short circuiting, which was absolutely ridiculous but true nonetheless. “‘Course,” he finally choked out.

For once in his life, Harry actually looked hesitant, and Nick would have processed that if he could have processed _anything_ , but he couldn’t, and before he even knew what was happening Harry was leaning forward and catching Nick’s lips with his own.

Harry wasn’t a self-conscious lad by any stretch of the term—this was the boy who walked around naked probably 90% of the time and didn’t give a damn who was around—so it surprised Nick a little that he was kissing as shy as he was. It was like he didn’t want to scare Nick off, which honestly if he could have wrapped his head around anything going on, Nick would have scoffed at that.

Except Harry was kissing him. _Harry_ was _kissing_ him. Him! Of all people! They were standing in the middle of Nick’s kitchen, snogging like it was something they’d done a million times.

They hadn’t, but while it happened Nick couldn’t think of any reasons as to why not.

There was still a space between them, as if Harry didn’t want to make the first move to close it for fear of breaking whatever spell the two of them were under, so Nick, finally regaining at least a small portion of his brain, took over. He reached up, sliding his fingers over Harry’s skin, into the curls at the nape of his neck until they were pressed flush against one another. 

That seemed to be all of the encouragement Harry needed, because it was like his hesitation melted away and was instantly replaced with that confidence Nick knew and loved. Harry’s hands slid into Nick’s hair, scraping and tugging just right and pulling him even closer to Harry , if that was even possible. He traced his tongue over Nick’s bottom lip before his mouth opened up just enough so that Harry was licking into him, and that was about the time Nick stopped thinking altogether.

All he could think about was that Harry tasted like tea, _his_ tea, and his lips were chapped from drinking and laughing and the long night that had faded into an even longer morning, and Harry smelled too much like the cologne he’d worn the night before that still clung to his shirt and his skin and _everywhere_. Nick thought he was going to pass out.

He was the first to pull away, and Harry whined deep in his throat at the loss of contact, but he was smiling and his eyes were sparkling and, Jesus Christ, Nick was so fucked.

Harry dropped his hands so they slid down Nick’s arms before they fell to his side altogether. “Was that all right then?” he asked quietly, the uncertainty back in his voice.

And honestly, that was enough for Nick, because he didn’t know if it was okay or not but he didn’t care because he just wanted to do it again.

He made an unsatisfied noise, balled his hand into the collar of Harry’s stupid shirt, and pulled him back in so their lips crashed together again. This time, Harry was the one caught off-guard and Nick was in charge. _“Fucked, fucked, fucked,”_ his brain kept chanting, but honestly he couldn’t be arsed to listen, because he was kissing Harry and he knew somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind were a million reasons why he _shouldn’t_ be kissing Harry, but then Harry’s hands were just barely ghosting under his shirt and his long calloused fingers were causing tremors up Nick’s spine and he knew he was done for.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against Harry’s skin after he enjoyed the way Harry groaned low in his throat from Nick dragging his teeth roughly over his bottom lip. “Yeah, come on then,” he said, his voice hoarse because _what the fuck was he doing?_ He latched his fingers around Harry’s wrist and dragged him to his bedroom.

&&&

 

Nick probably wouldn’t have woken up until morning if it wasn’t for two things: the growling in his stomach and the pop star stumbling around in the pitch black of his bedroom.

He watched him for a few minutes, his head turned to the side while Harry searched for his clothes scattered around the floor. Nick would have felt bad, because they hadn’t exactly been _graceful_ earlier, so honestly his trousers could have been out in the hallway and his pants were probably shoved under the bed, and god only knew where Harry’s shirt was.

He waited until Harry was slipping back into his trousers, practically falling over in the process, before he spoke up. “Only good for a shag then, am I, Pop Star?”

Harry stopped in the middle of buttoning up his shirt and smiled at Nick. “Didn’t want to wake you, but I promised my mum and Gem I’d get dinner with them tonight, and I sort of forgot, and I’m pretty sure if I show up in the shirt I’ve had on for the past two days, well… they’d both know something was up.”

Nick smirked. “You don’t want them to know about your scandalous ways then? Am I your dirty little secret, young Harold?”

“Hey!” Harry said with furrowed brows, drawing out the word like Nick knew he would.

He just rolled his eyes and smirked. “It’s fine.” He rolled over and grabbed his phone off the bedside table and noticed he had a handful of messages and missed calls. Nick sighed. “Aimee’s probably about two minutes away from sending out a search party, so I should probably meet her for drinks anyways.”

Harry laughed and finished getting dressed while Nick scrolled through Twitter and Instagram and generally caught back up with the real world, all while he watched Harry moving from the corner of his eye gathering up his things. But, just as Nick was sending Aimee a quick text— _dinner? Absolutely starving :(_ —he noticed Harry had stopped moving.

He looked up from his phone and there was Harry, just standing in the middle of his bedroom with a hand on the back of his neck and a curious expression on his face. “Problem, Pop Star?”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip before dropping his hands at his side and smiling. The look in his eyes made Nick think they were about to have a life changing discussion, but just as he was about to leap out of bed for the nearest bottle of hard liquor, Harry just said, “Everything okay then?”

Nick released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and nodded. “Go make yourself presentable. Anne likes me, don’t need you changing that opinion with your walk of shame appearance currently.”

Harry smiled, and then crossed the room in two strides before he leaned down and let his lips brush over Nick’s. And dammit all to hell, Nick was _not_ going to think about that. When he pulled back, Harry was smiling, his dimples out for all to see, and then he gave Nick a short nod before he walked out of his bedroom.

Nick watched the doorway for a minute before he fell back, his body hitting the mattress with a resounding _thump_ , and groaned. “Fucked,” he said out-loud finally. “I am fucked.

&&&

 

By the time he met Aimee, she already had a bottle of wine at the table and was looking rather unpleasant. So Nick was a _little_ late. It wasn’t his fault he had to spend an extra thirty minutes in the shower trying to rid the smell of pop star from his skin. As he sat down and Aimee glared at him over her wine glass, he was pretty sure he could still smell Harry’s stupid cologne. He snatched up his own glass, grateful Aimee knew him as well as she did, and took a large gulp. “What?” he said finally.

Aimee rolled her eyes dramatically and flopped back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest while she continued to glare at him over the table. “You’re _late_ , and not just the usual Grimmy late either. You’re, like, I could basically be on the dessert course with how long it took you to get here, _late._ ”

He rolled his eyes and took another long drink of his wine, because honestly, if this was how Aimee was going to be after the day he’d had, he was going to need it. “Nice to see you too, love. How was my day? Bloody exhausting actually, thanks for asking.”

“Oh shut up,” she huffed. “It’s your own fault you were out until the sun came up this morning, forcing you to go to the radio hungover and miserable.”

Nick scowled. “Why am I here? Why are we friends?”

Aimee smiled for the first time that night. “Because you love me, and because I know your favorite type of red wine.”

Well, Nick couldn’t deny that. He picked up the menu in front of him and started scanning it. “So I take it your day was significantly better than mine then?”

“I slept until two and woke up hungover-less, so yes, it definitely was.”

He rolled his eyes, because of course she woke up without a hangover, the lucky slag. “Weren’t you doing tequila shots last night? I vaguely remember tequila shots and you in the same sentence.”

“That would be thanks to Harry actually, who was offering tequila shots to _everyone_ , you included, but no I was not doing them.”

Nick sighed just as his phone buzzed on the table top. He offered Aimee an apologetic look before snatching it up. He was going to just shut it off—a rule he and Aimee had whenever they went out together was that they couldn’t be attached to their phones—but then he saw Harry’s name and he knew he couldn’t. He quickly opened the message.

_Somehow I’m the bad influence. Mum still loves you, don’t worry ;) .xx_

Nick chuckled before typing back a quick response.

**Course she does, love, because it’s me. Tell everyone hi for me xxx**

He locked his phone and then pocketed it before returning his attention to Aimee, who was grinning like the bloody Cheshire Cat. He groaned. “Problem?”

She shrugged. “Not at all, just wondering who you fucked last night.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, stop it!” Aimee laughed. “You had that sex glow from the second you stepped foot into the restaurant. Can’t believe you haven’t told me yet. Actually, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me the second after it happened, in great detail to scar me for years to come.”

“I just—I did _not!_ I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Nick said, stumbling over his words, because honestly his friends knew him entirely too well. “I don’t _brag_ about my sex life, Aimee!”

Now it was her turn to look shocked. “You do fucking too, you ass! Anyways, just tell me who it is.”

Nick stayed quiet and focused on his wine glass, because there was no bloody way in hell he was going to have this conversation right now.

“ _Nicholas,_ ” Aimee hissed after entirely too much silence. She leaned forward and smacked his shoulder. “Come on! Can’t be that bad, can it?”

 _Worse_ , he thought to himself. 

Aimee sighed and sat up straight. “I promise not to laugh. Was it another one of your dumb models?” She put her left hand up and her other over her heart, looking entirely too serious for Nick’s taste. “I, Aimee Phillips, promise not to mock your ridiculous interest in male models who barely know how to spell their own name. Just _tell me!_ ”

Nick sighed. “It wasn’t a model.”

“All right then. Now we’re getting somewhere. So, it wasn’t a model. Was it…” For the next five minutes, Aimee went through a list of possible subjects, just narrowly missing the one person who actually mattered.

“Oh, fucking come on, Grimmy! Just tell me already!”

“It was Harry,” he hissed, fed up with the entire conversation before it had even started. “Now will you _stop talking?_ ”

If Nick had a camera to document Aimee’s reaction, he would have used it. Honestly, if he could have gotten his phone out fast enough, he would have filmed the whole thing. First, her jaw dropped and she looked like she’d just witnessed a terrible car accident. Then, after a few moments of complete silence, she closed her mouth and her lips turned into a smirk. It just got worse from there.

“Oh, my fucking _God!_ ” she practically screeched in pure delight. Nick rubbed his temples and finished his wine, because apparently they were going to have this conversation and he was going to need to be at the very least a little fuzzy around the edges to deal with it.

“You finally did it! You _finally_ went for it! Oh my god. I can’t believe you almost didn’t tell me, you fucker!” For a moment, she looked irritated while she leaned over and smacked him, but then that ridiculous, pure _glee_ was back on her face. Nick wanted to smash his head against the table. “Well, how was it then? God, I can’t believe you finally did it! Literally.” She cackled like it was the funniest joke she’d ever heard and Nick just stared at her, completely unamused.

“We aren’t talking about this,” he muttered, reaching over to steal her wine glass and finish it off as well before he waved down their waiter to order more. When he left, Nick turned back to Aimee. “Because as far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen. So.”

“Oh, come _on,_ Grim! This isn’t really a surprise. I mean, it was bound to happen, and now it did, so what are you going to do about it?”

“Drink myself into a coma,” he deadpanned. “And then hold interviews for new mates.”

“Hmm, I bet you are,” she hummed, smirking at him. “So are you going to tell me how he is in bed then or will I have to drag that out of you too?”

&&&

 

Nick didn’t see Harry again until Friday night.

Thursday night, after they both finished their respective dinners, they went to their respective homes because Nick insisted they both needed a good night’s sleep, and if they were together it probably—all right, _definitely_ —wouldn’t happen. Plus, Nick had to work in the morning and he knew Harry wouldn’t want to come down to the station two mornings in a row—and Finchy wouldn’t want him to either—so they were just better off.

Friday morning Nick had to work and Harry had a final rehearsal to run through, because tour started the following day, but Nick didn’t want to think about that. If he didn’t think about it, it wasn’t a thing, and that was his life motto as of late.

Nick’s plans for that night conveniently did not include Harry Styles, but rather a bottle of red wine and whatever he had sitting on his DVR waiting to be watched. But he’d been texting Harry on and off all day, partly due to Harry’s complete inability to focus on rehearsals and Nick’s complete lack of self-control.

_I’m boooooored :( xx_

**Course you are, Pop Star. Getting paid to live his dream, but he’s bored. Such a diva…**

_Heeeyyyyyy, be nice!_

**I like to think I’ve been very nice to you, thanks xxx**

_Maybe. It’s hazy though._

Honestly Nick had scoffed when he got that, because he was fairly certain there was nothing hazy about what he and Harry did.

**I find that incredibly hard to believe, Pop Star.**

_Maybe you should come over then, just to be sure? xx_

Nick had no intention of seeing Harry that night, none at all, but he sensed a challenge that he wasn’t about to turn away from. And maybe Nick just wanted to see Harry because he knew the following day Harry would be gone until April, but Nick didn’t want to think about that at all to be honest.

Instead, Nick drank some wine and watched some telly and asked Harry to let him know when he was home.

That’s why when, at half ten, Harry said, _On the way back to mine now. Why?_ Nick replied with a simple **Keep your door unlocked, Pop Star. xxx**

He didn’t think about what he was doing while he finished off his glass of wine and he didn’t think about what he was doing while he got his things and slipped into his Converse. He definitely didn’t think about what he was doing when Thurston looked at him like he was committing a felony, because honestly he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t, and instead he grabbed a bottle of wine and his keys, locked his door, and headed out.

When he got to Harry’s, after getting buzzed in through the gate— _the gate, honestly_ , because of course Nick was shagging a bloody international pop star—he pulled into the driveway and parked behind the Audi before he shut his car off and got out. He pulled his phone out as he was walking up to the door and dialed Harry’s number.

“It’s unlocked!” Harry said by way of greeting, sounding defensive, as if Nick was going to yell at him.

He barked out a laugh. “I’m not even at the door yet, tosser. I just wanted to make sure you were actually here.”

“Just turned Nigella on actually.”

“Perfect. I brought wine. I’ll be in in a minute.”

They hung up and Nick made sure to shut his phone off, because if he wasn’t going to have an internal breakdown then he needed to make sure no one tried to contact him. He took in as much of Harry’s house— _Mansion_ , he mentally corrected himself—and shook his head as he went to the front door. “Rich Pop Star,” he muttered as he pushed open the door and announced himself.

“Kitchen!” Harry called back. Nick toed off his shoes by the door and padded through the house until he reached his destination, where Harry was standing over the counter with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a cork screw in the other. Except his eyebrows were furrowed and he was giving the corkscrew a look of death and he was struggling. Nick tried not to laugh, but _honestly?_ Harry was lucky he didn’t start cackling the second he stepped foot into the room.

Harry looked up, still with the furrowed brow look which just made Nick laugh harder. “ _What_ on Earth are you doing?” Nick finally asked, bracing himself against the other end of the counter when he finally finished laughing.

“I was _trying_ to open this bloody bottle of wine, but apparently it’s impossible.”

Nick rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the affectionate smile that tugged at his lips as he set his own bottle down and retrieved the one from Harry’s hands. He twisted the corkscrew just right so the cork came out with a resounding _pop_.

“How did you do that?” Harry exclaimed, sounding completely outraged that Nick had so easily got the cork out of the bottle.

Nick just shrugged. “Your corkscrew is bloody awful. You have to twist it just right or else it doesn’t work.” Nick tried not to think about the fact that he just _knew_ that, that it was like a fact engrained into his brain because he’d been to Harry’s so much and he’d used Harry’s corkscrew so much that he just _knew_ how it worked.

“Well, I loosened it,” Harry muttered, bringing Nick back to the present and his sounding like a child, which just made him laugh more.

“Of course you did, Pop Star. Of course you did.”

They ended up in the living room with both bottles of wine—“Because why not?” Nick said and Harry couldn’t argue that—with the telly switched on to something Nick honestly couldn’t have cared any less about. He was, unfortunately, focused on his wine and the person sitting next to him on the couch, because this was what his life was now apparently.

He just—he tried very hard not to think about that.

About halfway through the show—he was pretty certain they were watching a re-run of The Great British Bake-Off—Nick ended up sprawled out on the couch like he had done so many times before, his legs resting comfortably in Harry’s lap. Well, comfortable for him anyways but he couldn’t be sure about Harry; Nick was taking up a better portion of the couch, stretched out like a cat just because he knew he could and Harry wouldn’t say a word.

Honestly, Nick didn’t really care. He knew he should have been thinking more, and probably shouldn’t have been over at Harry’s in the first place, but he was tired and he just didn’t _care._ He never put this much thought into what he did with Harry before, so why should that change just because they’d shagged? Nick didn’t think it should, so he was determined to act like he would have any other time, which meant little personal space and even fewer boundaries.

Harry had one arm resting on the back of the couch while his other laid on Nick’s legs, his hand spread over Nick’s knee. Nick could feel his thumb rubbing circles through the pair of joggers he was wearing, and it was—bloody hell, it was _nice._

And Nick hated that, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. It was just Harry, for Christ’s sake! Yes, they’d kissed the night before, and yes, that had _quickly_ escalated, and maybe it had been really fucking brilliant, but it was still _just Harry._ There was nothing—it wasn’t like there was something _there._

Nick tried very hard to ignore the part of his brain that was protesting otherwise.

That was about the time he’d had enough. Without even thinking, he sat up so he was practically in Harry’s lap, reached out so his fingers were wrapping around Harry’s neck, and pulled him in. He tried very hard not to focus on the surprised sound Harry let out and instead just focused on his lips, how they were stained purple, and how he tasted sweet and sour from the alcohol.

There was no shyness on Nick’s part this time, no time for the awkward _what the hell are we doing?_ that he’d felt the first time it’d happened. Nick was totally in control, and while Harry had quickly reciprocated and caught on to what they were doing, this time it was all Nick. He rearranged himself so he was straddling Harry, uncomfortable with his prior position, and tried not to focus on the way Harry groaned from the movement.

He started out with his hands on Harry’s neck, but was quickly unsatisfied with just that so he moved his hands down Harry’s chest until he was at the hem of the younger boy’s t-shirt. He slipped his fingers under the material and scraped his nails over his pale skin, enjoying the hiss of pleasure Harry released.

Nick nipped at Harry’s lower lip, dragging it between his teeth before pulling his lips down to his neck, attacking the skin there. It wasn’t until he saw the wing of one of Harry’s sparrows poking out from his t-shirt that he decided there was too much material between them. “Off, off, come on then,” he said impatiently, pulling at Harry’s t-shirt.

Harry quickly got the point and pulled the shirt off of his body in one swift move that Nick probably would have been impressed with if he wasn’t busy with other things. He scraped his teeth over the wings of the birds, careful not to bite too close to where the hem of even Harry’s lowest shirts lay because, honestly, he did _not_ need the photographic evidence of what was happening once Harry was gone and performing for all of the bloody United Kingdom.

 _Oh._ He tried really hard to ignore the pull in his chest at that, everything really, because what they were doing was so stupid, so reckless and irresponsible on so many different levels. Nick knew that, which was the worst part. He knew he should get off Harry, grab his keys, and drive back to his flat. He knew he should have left right then, but he couldn’t. He brought his lips back up to Harry’s, tracing his tongue over Harry’s bottom lip and waiting for him to open his mouth just a little more, and then he was licking into it, tasting the wine and _Harry_ , and it was senses overload then. Harry was moaning deep in his throat, so deep Nick could feel it in his chest, and somewhere along the way their hips had started to move and Nick could feel every inch of Harry pressed against him, from the tip of his toes to the top of his head.

It was too much.

Nick pulled back unexpectedly, and of course Harry had to release that stupid little whine at the loss of contact, making his brain go even fuzzier than it already was. As if that was even possible. Nick braced himself with both arms bracketing Harry’s head while Harry’s fingers were digging hard into Nick’s hips, likely leaving bruises. “What?” Harry asked, all breathless and— _Oh, fuck it._

Nick knew there were a million things he should have done. He knew he should have left, or at the very least just bloody talked to Harry about what was going through his head. But he’d drank almost an entire bottle of wine himself, and Harry was _right there_ , with his purple lips and his furrowed eyebrows and, for the love of the bloody Queen, his shirt was tossed to the other side of the room.

Nick shook his head and crawled out of Harry’s lap so he was standing in front of him. He took a deep breath and then without a word turned around so he was headed in the direction of Harry’s room.

He didn’t even have to stop to see if Harry was following him, he just heard his heavy footsteps as they quickly followed Nick through the house.

But then it was Harry taking control, stopping Nick in the hallway and pulling him flush against his chest before he pinned Nick against the wall. Harry’s lips immediately found Nick’s, licking into his mouth with a new urgency that Nick honestly didn’t even want to try to wrap his brain around. He was holding Nick’s hips again, digging his fingers into the skin there so hard it probably should have hurt, but _god_ did it feel good.

Harry pulled away, and then it was Nick’s turn to make the unsatisfied whine. Not for long though, because before he could process it, Harry’s tongue was tracing a line from Nick’s earlobe and down his neck, until he reached his partially exposed collarbone.

“Really, Pop Star?” he said, and he wanted to kick himself for how out of breath he was. “Couldn’t make it to the—“ He couldn’t finish his sentence, though, because he cut himself off with a low moan as Harry scraped his teeth over his skin, biting at his collarbone so he left an angry red lovebite.

“You wouldn’t do it, so I had to,” he said into Nick’s ear, his voice low and scratchy.

That was enough for Nick. He pushed him away just enough so he could move, latched his fingers around Harry’s wrist, and pulled him into the bedroom.

For the second time, Nick hushed the quiet _I am fucked_ that kept repeating in his brain and just focused on his Pop Star, because at least if he was going to go up in flames, he wanted to remember it fondly.

&&&

Nick left straight afterwards, Harry asleep and sprawled out in bed with nothing but a note saying he’d see him later, because honestly Nick didn’t know what he was doing anymore.

&&&

 

Nick knew what hell was. He wished he didn’t, but he knew, and he was fairly certain he must have done something absolutely bloody _terrible_ in a previous life to be going through a One Direction concert on a Saturday afternoon with a hangover. But the plans had been made months in advance, so really it was Nick’s own bloody fault that after he left Harry’s he’d gone back to his and drank another bottle of wine all to himself in the span of a half hour before he collapsed on his bed and went over in his head a million times just how fucked he was.

He tried not to think too much while they sat and waited for the show to start, and even less once the lads came popping out of the bloody _ground_ like the boy band they were, and instead just put earplugs in and tried his hardest not to focus on Harry for an extended period of time.

This, unfortunately though, led to Nick blowing up Aimee’s mobile during the entire show.

**Get me out of here. xxx**

_Stop being dramatic Grimmy honestly._

**I’M NOT. WHY AM I HERE?**

_To watch your boyfriend._

**I’m holding auditions for new friends because honestly I hate you. >:(**

_I’m your best friend, don’t even. Enjoy your babe’s show. Xo_

**I hate you. I’m fucked.**

_You will be when it’s over! Xoxox_

Nick huffed at that and pocketed his phone only halfway through the show because, honestly, Aimee was the least helpful human being on the entire bloody planet.

The show went fine, Nick supposed, despite the mental screaming at every single thing the lads would say—Nick was pretty sure they could have announced a brilliant murder plot against everyone in the audience and the girls sitting on the floor would have screamed in pure joy. 

But then there was Harry.

He wasn’t doing much of anything, he was actually, overall, harmless the entire show, but he kept bouncing over to the side of the stage closest to where Nick was seated and picking him out of the crowd. It was fine, Nick guessed, but it just—that was the problem. Nick liked it, liked being picked out of the crowd while he made ridiculous faces back at Harry, who cracked up on stage every time.

 _That_ was the problem.

Nick got through the show with minimal brain damage and then when it was all said and done he found himself backstage, because there was a text waiting for him that simply said _Come backstage .xx_ that Nick wasn’t about to ignore.

So he made his way through the crowd and backstage—after a bit of miscommunication with one of the security guards, because _of course_ —and then thankfully found Harry not long after that.

It took Nick all of two seconds to notice Harry’s blown-wide pupils and flushed cheeks before he realized he was in trouble. It took him an extra five seconds for his brain to catch up once he followed Harry down an empty hall and then it took him a full minute to comprehend what exactly Harry was doing when they ducked into some small storage closet.

His brain short-circuited when Harry shut the door and backed him up against it roughly, his mouth on Nick’s in an instant. He couldn’t even think straight because it was rough and urgent and _Jesus Christ what were they doing?_

Harry’s mouth fell down to Nick’s neck as he breathed heavily and bit the skin there, his fingers reaching up to pull aside Nick’s jumper so he could bite his collarbone. The difference between this and the other two times was the roughness, the urgency beneath Harry’s fingers, so much so that it was making Nick’s head spin.

“Harry,” he groaned finally, trying to push the younger boy away because Jesus, they were in a _supply closet_ for Christ’s sake. “We can’t—not _here._ ”

And Harry laughed. He actually _laughed_ , sounding breathless, before he stepped back barely a millimeter and rested his forehead on Nick’s shoulder, breathing heavily. “It’s just—so much adrenaline, y’know? Sort of forgot how it feels to perform. Felt like I was losing it.” His hands were on Nick’s hips then, and he squeezed, as if anchoring himself so he _didn’t_ lose it.

That was too much for Nick to handle, let alone wrap his brain around, so he just pushed it into the back of his mind.

Once they composed themselves and Harry seemed calm again, they ducked out of the closet and made their way to the dressing room, where the other lads were waiting. Nick said his hellos, greeted Lou and Caroline and the other lads briefly, before hugging Anne in greeting because despite Harry’s protests, his mum really did adore Nick. He talked to everyone for a little while, barely missing Harry’s eyes on him the entire time, but then, before Nick knew it, it was almost show time again which meant that it was Nick’s cue to duck out.

“I’ve gotta head out then, Pop Star,” he said to Harry once he kissed his mum on the cheek and said he’d see her after the show.

“You’re not staying?” he asked, and dammit, Nick tried very hard to ignore the sound of his voice, didn’t even try to categorize it for fear of what it would do to him.

He nodded. “‘Fraid so. Lead me out of this bloody place so I don’t get lost?” he asked, even though he knew better. He figured he might as well have a proper goodbye, figured he could give himself that much.

Harry smiled fondly and nodded before he lead them out. “Thanks for coming,” he said, his voice quieter as they walked down the hall towards the back entrance.

And oh, bloody hell, Nick couldn’t stand the look on his face, like a puppy who was getting his favorite chew toy taken away or something. He sighed and reached out to rub his fingers through Harry’s hair. “Anything for you, Pop Star.” He hated how true the statement was.

Eventually they were in the deepest area of the O2, and Nick knew Harry couldn’t go any further, that he had to go back because he’d be going out soon. He turned to face Harry, who had his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers with a small smile on his face. “I’ll call, yeah? And text so much you’ll be bloody sick of me.”

Nick knew that would never be true, but he nodded. “Right, in the midst of your pop star duties you’ll find time to duck away for a quick chat with little old me.”

Harry frowned, furrowed his eyebrows, and said, “Hey. I will.”

Nick sighed and nodded. “I know you will, Pop Star. I know you will.” _That’s the problem._

Satisfied, Harry nodded and then, before he knew it, he was enveloping Nick in a hug that he couldn’t help but return. Harry’s face nuzzled into the crook of Nick’s neck, his hot breath tickling Nick’s skin while his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Nick allowed himself the moment to breathe in Harry’s scent, his clean and sharp cologne combining with the sweat and the sweet smell of the hair product Lou had put in his hair before the show that Nick was sure he had all but sweated out by now. He allowed himself that moment so he could memorize the small details, and the way Harry felt pressed against him, and the warmth of his breath against his skin, because what else did he have?

“Only we would try starting something like this before I leave for tour,” Harry said quietly, fondness laced through his every word as he chuckled, the sound getting lost in Nick’s throat.

Nick really wasn’t prepared for the way his heart jerked about in his chest at that, because was that it? Were he and Harry starting something?

 _No,_ he told himself sadly. They weren’t. A few half-drunk shags and an almost romp in a closet wasn’t a thing— _except it was_ —but he didn’t know how to tell that to Harry. His head was screaming it at him so loud he could barely think straight, but he couldn’t get his mouth to make the words. He wanted to apologize, tell Harry how sorry he was but that—they weren’t—he couldn’t _do_ that, but he wasn’t sure what part of that made him feel worse so he just stayed quiet.

The contrast between the two of them was so vast, it was as if Harry was already on tour across the world. When Harry finally let go and pulled back, he had a smile on his face and his eyes were bright, happy as a bloody kid in a sweets shop. Nick knew if he could look in a mirror, his face probably was more akin to that of someone arriving at a funeral—he knew there was a joke there somewhere, because Harry was absolutely going to be the death of him, but he couldn’t be arsed to find it—but he tried to hide that with a smirk. Harry leaned in and kissed him, quick and sweet, and—God, Nick couldn’t do this.

“Go save the world, Pop Star, or whatever it is you do,” he said, his voice quiet as he dropped his hands at his side. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he said, just to earn that smile on Harry’s face even though he knew he didn’t deserve it, because even before the words left Nick’s mouth he knew they weren’t true.

Harry nodded and reached out to squeeze his hand once before stepping back, putting a physical distance between them. “April then, yeah? It’ll go by faster than you even realize.”

Nick nodded, stepped forward to kiss Harry once more, and then started walking towards the exit. “I’ll see you.”

Nick didn’t look back as he walked out of the arena, not entirely sure he could take the look on Harry’s face as he watched him leave, and waited until he got in the cab to pull his phone out. He immediately pulled up a message to send to Aimee, knowing deep down he should have just called her but couldn’t find his voice to do so.

**Leaving now. Far beyond fucked. Hope you have that bottle of emergency tequila ready and waiting. xxx**

Her response came seconds later, and Nick could almost see her pitying face and the sigh she released as he read her message.

_Two actually, went out and bought another this morning just for you. I’m already at yours. Xoxoxox_

And honestly, Nick wasn’t sure what he ever did to deserve someone like Aimee but he thanked every higher power there was for her existence.

&&&

When Nick got to his flat, he heard the soft hum of the telly and Aimee’s bright laugh the second he stepped through the door. He slipped off his jacket and dropped it in a pile near his shoes by the door before going straight into the living room so he could collapse on the couch beside one of his best mates.

He let his head fall into Aimee’s lap while he lay on his side and screwed his eyes shut as tight as he could manage. “I’m fucked,” he muttered, his words falling flat. “I’m fucked and I don’t know what to do about it, and this is me telling you how fucked I am so you can say you told me so and then hopefully help me fix this mess, yeah?”

Aimee sighed, her fingers threading through Nick’s depressed looking quiff before she opened her mouth. “Take a shot, and then start from the beginning.”

So that was how it went for the next hour. Nick would take a shot, tell a bit of the story, take another shot, talk some more, and so on until he reached the end. “Then he said something about, we would be the only ones to try starting something right when he’s leaving for tour.”

“And you said…?”

Nick didn’t answer, because he vaguely recalled saying nothing at all.

Aimee sighed for what Nick felt like was the hundredth time that night, but his head was heavy and fuzzy around the edges from the alcohol. “Do you want my honest opinion or do you just want me to make you feel better because you’re drunk and whining?”

Nick narrowed his eyes and turned his body around so he was staring up at her. “Both,” he muttered.

She rolled her eyes. “I think you’re being an idiot.”

Nick scoffed at that, because honestly, _as if he didn’t know that already._ That was the reason he was in the situation he was in anyways. “Thanks for the insight, Aims. Really.”

“Well you asked!” She pushed Nick off of her lap and into an upright position before she stood up herself. “And honestly Nick, that’s putting it lightly.”

He scowled at her. “Tell me how you really feel then.”

“You _love_ him, Nicholas,” she huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “But you’re too big of a twat to just man up and _do_ something about it!”

Nick was done with the conversation to be honest so he waved her off as he got up. He walked—all right, _stumbled_ —into his kitchen and searched for a glass to fill with water.

“That’s it then?” she asked, hopping up so she was sitting on the island. “You’re just—you’re done? You’re going to, what, toss him aside then, like he’s another meaningless one night stand even though we _both_ know that’s far from the truth?”

Nick made an unsatisfied noise but didn’t answer, choosing to focus on the water he was filling his cup with instead.

“Nicholas!” Aimee hissed after too much silence, making Nick jump slightly as he brought his glass to his lips. He watched her with careful eyes as she glared at him. “Will you please talk to me?”

“Honestly, _what_ do you want me to say, Aimee? That I’m going to try to have an actual relationship with Mr. Pop Sensation? That it’s all going to work out, even though he just left for tour for the next _eight months?_ ”

She sighed before she hopped off the counter and walked over to him. She placed both of her hands on Nick’s shoulders, which were slumping in defeat. “Just want you to be honest with yourself, babe. That’s all. No matter what that means.”

“Just dunno if I can do this, Aims. I mean—he’s _Harry._ ”

She rolled her eyes. “And you’re Nick.” Nick started to protest, saying he didn’t know what that had to do with anything, but Aimee cut him off. “Don’t even. You know what it means. The two of you—that’s just the way it is. Always has been, probably always will be.”

He didn’t want to think about what that meant, actually, so he just… didn’t. Aimee left eventually, with Nick promising her he’d be fine, that he just needed some sleep, and then he curled up in his bed and tried not to think about the pop star smell that still lingered or just how big his bed felt when he was the only one in it.

&&&

Nick stayed in his bed all weekend and didn’t leave until Monday rolled around and he had a job to go do.

Despite wanting more than anything to just shut his phone off and never look at it again, Nick kept his word to Aimee and kept his phone on him all weekend. He even answered her calls, partly because he wanted to but mostly because he knew if he didn’t she would just show up. He was fine, completely fine, he just didn’t feel like dealing with anyone. But then Monday rolled around and his alarm woke him up entirely too early and he just took a deep breath and told himself he’d get through it.

Nick knew it wasn’t a matter of _getting through it_ though, but rather actually looking like nothing was wrong, so when he walked into the studio and greeted Finchy, he smiled and said good morning before getting himself set up for the show ahead of him.

Everything was going just fine, until _someone_ asked him how the One Direction concert went.

Luckily, Nick was a professional, thank you very much, so he just laughed it off and told some jokes about the whole experience. He talked about it for a few minutes, conveniently didn’t mention Harry’s name once, and then played the next track. “Can’t believe you actually went to the One Direction show,” Finchy commented while the song played. Nick laughed it off, because he _really_ didn’t want to talk about it, and picked his phone up, which was lighting up incessantly.

With Harry’s name. Because, of fucking course.

_Finchy still upset he couldn’t come? ;) .xx_

Nick sighed, but figured he could at least talk to Harry for a few minutes while the song played.

**Holds a grudge, that Fincham. Don’t think he’ll ever forgive me. xxx**

_That’s okay. Think we can take him?_

And yeah, all right, so Nick’s heart jumped a little at “we” but he was only bloody _human._

**Dunno Pop Star. You’re pretty lanky… xxx**

_Heeeyyyyy! :(_

Nick laughed, picturing the furrowed brow expression on young Harold’s face. **Song’s almost over, Pop Star. Plus, isn’t it early? Get some sleep. xxx**

_All right, call you later .xx_

And the thing was, Nick knew he would.

The show ended and Nick went home with minimum hassle from Finchy, and almost the second he stepped through his door, his phone started going off in his pocket. He thought about ignoring it, but he knew who it was so he just pulled it out, sucked it up, and slid his thumb across the screen. “Eager then, are we, Pop Star?”

Harry laughed, and Nick couldn’t help but smile. “Just miss you, I guess,” he said, his voice low and scratchy, as if he had just woken up.

Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Miss you too, Hazza.” And the thing was, he meant it. “How’d the show go last night?”

“Good. We’re on our way to Glasgow now. No show until tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t you be on voice rest then?” Nick murmured as he dug through his cupboards, mainly to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t fidget but also because he really would have liked a cup of tea.

“I am, but I wanted to talk to you.” His voice had taken on that sheepish tone and Nick could almost see the look on his face as he looked down, probably chewing on his bottom lip, and—oh, for the love of the Queen, Nick needed to end the phone call.

“I’m glad you called,” Nick said finally when his motor skills started working again. “But you should rest. Don’t want to be the reason for the Pop Star’s demise, yeah?” _Like he’s the reason for mine,_ Nick added silently.

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, all right. You should kip on the couch then or something, you’re probably knackered.”

 _Yeah,_ Nick thought. _I am, but not in the way you’re thinking._ He sighed. “I’ll talk to you later, Pop Star.”

“All right, bye,” he said quick and then the line went dead.

&&&

February ended, and then March came and went, and before Nick knew it, it was April first and he hadn’t spoken to Harry in weeks.

He didn’t stop talking to Harry all at once, obviously, because he couldn’t. He didn’t hold the means necessary to be able to just drop Harry as if it was nothing, because he _wasn’t_ nothing, but Nick tried not to think about that.

It started out with a missed call here or there. Nick told himself he was doing it so he’d get used to it, so he wouldn’t automatically answer his phone just because Harry’s face was flashing on the screen. It’d been hard at first, because he didn’t want to ignore Harry, but it was easy to play off. _Sorry, busy at the station!_ or _Drinks with Aimee, call you later! xxx_ Sometimes, if he had the energy and he knew Harry would have a spare moment, he called back and Harry never, not once, let on that something was wrong. He understood Nick had a life outside of him, and that he was on tour so he was busy as well, and it wasn’t easy but they’d make do.

Eventually Nick just stopped returning the calls, didn’t apologize via text to let Harry know he’d call him later, nothing. It was just… silence.

Nick wasn’t sure what was harder, the silence or actually hearing Harry’s voice, but he knew it was for the better.

So he just kept going. He didn’t think about the fact that he knew the exact day when Harry’s texts stop coming in and he didn’t think about how much he hated himself. He just kept going. And when April first rolled around and Nick had to go to work, he really didn’t think about how long it’d been since he’d heard from Harry and how much he missed him, because he couldn’t.

He went to work. He smiled at Finchy. He did the show in as good of a mood as he could muster because he didn’t have a choice.

Until Finchy decided to do some Twitter questions, because apparently they were overloaded with tweets that day, and One Direction was brought up. “Grace from North London wants to know if you’re going to any of the London shows this week, Grimmy,” he said after Nick had answered questions about his favorite song and what he’d had for breakfast that morning.

Nick practically choked on his tongue. “What?”

Finchy gave him a funny look over his monitor. “One Direction have four shows in London, starting tonight.” Nick tried not to read into the _surely Harry told you_ that was left implied at the end of Finchy’s sentence, and just nodded.

“Right, ‘course. Probably won’t make it to those then. I think one One Direction show is enough for me.”

And he knew, he _knew_ that hadn’t been the right thing to say even before the words left his lips, but he said them anyways and then they were out there and he couldn’t take them back.

 _Harry was in London._ Nick played the next song. _Harry was home_. Nick ignored the way Finchy was still looking at him. _Harry was home and hadn’t told Nick._

Nick’s phone was going off like a bloody bomb, so he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

_Breakfast when you’re done with the show. Xoxox_

Nick sighed, knowing he wouldn’t turn away Aimee, and told her he’d meet her at their usual spot before throwing his attention back into the show so he could get through it in one piece.

It wasn’t until Nick was walking into the restaurant and taking a seat across from an impatient looking Aimee that he felt like he could breathe again.

“So are you going to tell me why you dropped Harry faster than you picked him up or what? Because honestly, Nick, I’m tired of this.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “I didn’t—“

“Stop,” Aimee said, and her voice was so harsh and full of _I’m not fucking about here_ that Nick, for once in his life, actually stopped talking. “Just fucking tell me what happened, because last I knew things were fine?”

That was the problem, Nick supposed, because as far as Aimee knew things _were_ fine. He was talking to Harry regularly and had sucked up whatever had gone through his head to cause him to freak out, and things were fine.

Except none of that was true, but Aimee didn’t know that.

“Nothing happened, you’re being absolutely ridiculous, can we just—“

“So then you’ve seen Harry? You’re going to the show tonight? Everything’s fine?”

It was the way she said it that Nick knew she knew. 

“Nicholas. What did you do?”

Nick sighed heavily and looked down at the table. “I stopped answering his calls.”

“And why would you do that?”

 _Because I’m stupidly in love with him but I don’t know how to be in a relationship like a normal person, let alone a relationship with Harry bloody Styles from One Direction._ Nick stayed quiet.

“Why don’t you go down to the venue, go see him maybe? I’m sure he misses you. He probably thinks he did something wrong, and he just—“

“Aimee,” Nick said, his voice stern. “No. We’re not—can we please change the subject? I fucked up. I don’t know how to fix it, or if I can, but I _do not_ want to talk about this right now, all right?”

For once in her life, Aimee listened and the subject was dropped.

Nick didn’t have to think about Harry or anything related to Harry until Wednesday night, because Wednesday night, when Nick was laying on his couch watching an episode of the Great British Bake Off with a glass of red wine in his hand, there was a knock on his door. A frantic series of knocks actually, which had Nick curious.

He probably should have expected it, but when he opened his door only to reveal a disheveled looking Harry, eyes red and cheeks flushed with the smallest smile Nick had ever seen on his lips, Nick was still shocked.

“Harry—what are you doing here?”

The punch to the heart Nick felt when he caught the expression on Harry’s face was stronger than he ever would have expected. He just looked so _young_ , and hurt, and it was all Nick’s fault.

“It’s just—I mean, how are you?”

Oh, all right, so that was how they were doing things. Nick sighed. “Love, what are you doing?”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip and looked at the floor. “You were ignoring me. I just—I wanted to know what I did, I guess. Did I… did I do something?”

Nick _hated_ himself. More than he did when he dyed his hair blonde, specifically ignoring his friends protests, more than he did when he first made the decision to stop talking to Harry, and more than he ever had in the twenty-eight years that he’d been alive. He _loved_ Harry, he could absolutely say that to himself—maybe not to anyone else, but to himself for sure—and yet he’d hurt him as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “Oh, love, no. I just…” Nick trailed off, because he didn’t really have much of an explanation.

Then silence. A thick silence fell between them, Nick watching Harry carefully while Harry made sure to avoid his eyes completely.

Finally, the younger lad nodded. “All right. Yeah, that’s okay. I’ll just—I have to go then. I’ll see you later,” he said quietly before turning around.

Nick would have loved to be able to just let him go, but he also knew he couldn’t, because this was _Harry_ for Christ’s sake. “Haz, hold on.” Immediately he stopped in the hall and turned around. His eyes were wet and, God, Nick hated himself. “This is my fault.”

Harry shrugged, but Nick figured he probably meant that it was.

“I just—I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I couldn’t…”

Harry gave him a short nod. “Didn’t want to be with me. It’s fine, Nick. Wish you would have just said that, but it’s fine. I really should go, though, so—“

“No, Harry.” He groaned in frustration and rubbed his hands over his face. “That’s not it _at all._ I just…” Nick trailed off again. It was as if he couldn’t physically make himself finish a sentence, and he was so frustrated, and he just wanted that abused puppy look off of Harry’s face for good.

Before he lost his nerve—which he didn’t focus on, because honestly, when did Nick _ever_ get nervous about anything, let alone something to do with Harry? Bloody hell—he closed the distance between them in a few long strides, placed both hands on Harry’s face, and kissed him.

It only lasted a few seconds before Harry was flailing and pushing Nick away from him. “What?” he said, out of breath and confused and—God, was that hurt ever going to leave his eyes?

Nick balled his fists into Harry’s shirt and stumbled backwards, pulling Harry with him. He shut the door and backed Harry against it, keeping his hands planted firmly on Harry’s shoulders while he kissed him like his life depended on it. And maybe it did, but he wasn’t going to think about that. He just kissed him and Harry kissed back.

He trailed his tongue over Harry’s bottom lip, and when Harry opened his mouth more, he licked into it, swallowing Harry’s moan in the process. In the back of his mind, Nick was pretty sure their entire display was a little obscene and he wouldn’t want anyone to see it, but they were alone and he missed Harry, missed him more even though he was right in front of him, and he wanted this more than anything. He wanted to make Harry feel better, and he wanted to feel better, and he didn’t care about much else.

He felt a push on his shoulder so he fell back a little. Nick’s lips fell to Harry’s neck while he scraped his teeth over his pulse point, feeling the groan Harry released in the back of his throat. “What?” Harry repeated, breathless and sounding vaguely like he was going to pass out. Honestly, Nick could relate.

“It’s not you,” Nick muttered, mouthing at Harry’s skin until he reached the tips of the swallows. He dragged his teeth over Harry’s collarbones, making the younger boy arch his back while his head fell back against the door. “It was never you. Me. So bloody _stupid,_ ” he continued, his voice taking on an angry tone because he was _so bloody stupid._

Nick brought his mouth back to Harry’s and kissed him hard, biting at his bottom lip, because honestly if he was going to crash and burn he was going to go all out, thank you very fucking much.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t particularly enjoying their display pushed against the door to his flat, but he knew they couldn’t just stay there. He pulled his lips off of Harry’s and tried to catch his breath. He wanted to ask Harry questions, or tell him what he was thinking, or anything really but he couldn’t get himself to form the words. So instead he just looked at Harry and tried to decipher his expression. His eyes were soft, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen and obscene looking, quite honestly . His cheeks were flushed and his hair was even more of a mess than usual, and it was all from Nick. Every bit of it.

But the best part, Nick decided, was that Harry didn’t look like a wounded puppy anymore, and that was all he needed really. “Come on then,” he said quietly before latching his fingers around Harry’s wrist, pulling him towards his bedroom.

As soon as Nick’s door clicked shut, there was a charge behind their moves that hadn’t been there before. Nick couldn’t get Harry’s shirt off fast enough, and then they were stumbling out of their clothes like the fabric was burning their skin. Then it was just lips on lips and hands everywhere and Nick’s head was spinning while small _I’m sorry_ ’s fell from his lips, whispered apologies that he couldn’t have brought himself to say otherwise even though he knew Harry deserved more.

It was all too much, sensory overload in every single sense of the word, and he couldn’t believe a bloody nineteen year old was making him feel that way, but as the two of them were a pile of tangled limbs and sheets and chasing sleep, Nick was pretty sure he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

&&&

 

When Nick woke up with Harry’s arm wrapped tight around his waist and snuggled up against his side, he only freaked out for a record ten seconds before his breathing resumed a normal pattern and he realized he quite enjoyed it actually. He probably would have stayed there all day if he could have.

Sadly, he had the nation to entertain and a job to do which did not involve the pop star sleeping in his bed—at least not directly.

Harry was _clutching_ him though, as if his life depended on it, so Nick couldn’t have gotten up even if he wanted to. “Harold,” he said gently, nudging Harry’s leg with his foot to try and get him to stir.

Nothing. Nick sighed. “Up, Pop Star. I’ve got places to go and things to do that, sadly, don’t involve you.”

“Hmph,” Harry mumbled, merely burrowing further into Nick’s side. His curls tickled Nick’s skin and he couldn’t help but think how fucked he was, but it was fond and much less self-deprecating than it ever had been before, because he may have been fucked but he figured Harry was too so at least they were going down together.

He sneaked a peek at the watch still wrapped around Harry’s wrist and knew he could stay in bed for exactly fifteen more minutes without being late, as long as he skipped his cup of tea before he left. He _hated_ skipping his morning tea, but he hated the idea of leaving Harry more, so staying in bed won out in the end.

“Gonna be late,” he heard Harry mumble into his skin after a few moments of silence, because _of course._

He sighed. “Well I have a pop star weighing me down, can’t exactly get up, can I?”

Just like that, Harry pulled his arm away and curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around the pillow. Nick frowned, not believing it was that easy, and sat up. “I have to go to work,” he said sadly.

“I have to go back to the venue,” Harry said, his eyes still closed and his voice hoarse, but Nick didn’t think about that because— _No._

There was quiet for a few more minutes before Nick finally spoke up. “Think I could swing by the show tonight?”

Harry’s eyes flew open at that, and he was suddenly completely awake, which Nick knew would happen, but also wished hadn’t because he didn’t want to make this a thing, even though he knew it was. 

“What?” Harry asked while he sat up slowly.

“Well, I figure we have to have a proper talk soon, and since we obviously can’t accomplish that when there’s a bed in the near vicinity, I figure we could try it tonight after the show.” He sighed and shrugged. “And I miss you, and I want to see you again tonight, and tomorrow night before you leave again, and whenever I can in the next few weeks.”

The only thing on Nick’s mind was Harry’s Cheshire Cat grin when he lunged toward him, kissing him like there was nothing more in the world that he wanted to do.

Nick was only ten minutes late to work, Finchy only glared at him twice, and he only mentioned One Direction ten times in the first hour, which he thought was pretty bloody brilliant, despite Finchy’s protests.

Nick kept to his word and went down to the O2 that afternoon and met Harry backstage after only minimal hassling from security. When he walked into the dressing room, he immediately found Harry spread out on one of the couches with his eyes just barely closed, and he smiled because it was Harry and—

_He loved him._

“Hi, Pop Star,” he said quietly.

Harry’s eyes opened quickly and he smiled back. “Wondered when you’d get here.” He got off the couch and crossed the space between them in a few long strides, and then kissed Nick like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that was the thing—it _was._ When they pulled apart, Harry was still smiling and Nick was confused but, God, this was Harry and he loved him. “Glad you’re here,” Harry said then, looking down as he threaded his fingers with Nick’s.

“I think I love you,” Nick blurted out then, because he was nothing if not smooth and graceful. He needed a drink, and he ignored that a nineteen year old boy was doing that to him, but it was the truth. He swallowed the lump in his throat and kept going. “And I know I’ve been totally shit lately—don’t argue because it’s true—but honestly I just don’t know what I’m doing. What we’re doing. I don’t know what this is, didn’t know what it meant before you left, and then you were _gone_ , and that’s my own fault because I had how many months to sort through this? and I chose a few days before you were leaving for eight bloody months instead? For some reason my brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s so I thought if I ignored you it would go away, or something, but it didn’t, it just got worse. Then suddenly you were there last night and you looked like I ran over your bloody _puppy_ and I’d never hated myself more because I knew I’d done that to you. But I’m too fucked up so I couldn’t say any of this last night and instead just—well, you know. But…” Nick trailed off and shrugged. “I think I love you, and I know this is all complete shit, but I feel like I owe you that much, yeah?”

When he looked up again, Harry was looking at him with this— _fondness_ , Nick decided—and he thought he could physically feel the punch to his heart, that’s how much it overwhelmed him. This was _Harry_ , his brain kept screaming at him, but his heart was just like _no fucking kidding you gigantic wanker, now shut up and bloody snog already!_ So that’s what he did.

Nick grabbed Harry’s face and kissed him, hard and fast and sloppy, and this time when they pulled apart he absolutely _relished_ the little whine Harry emitted in the back of his throat.

He pressed his forehead against Harry’s and sighed. “Wanna say something then, Pop Star?”

“I just—“ Harry sputtered, finally finding his voice. “I fucking _love you_ , and I love how fucked up you are, which probably makes me just as fucked, yeah? But I love you and I love that you did this so entirely backwards, and I hate that you ignored me but I still love you so much sometimes it makes my head spin. I don’t really get it and I think we still have a lot to figure out, but, fuck Nick, _I love you_ , and honestly I’ll spend as much time figuring it out as I have to if it means I get to kiss you like that whenever I want.”

Nick bloody Grimshaw, the man of many words, the man who never stopped talking, the man whose friends often threatened to sew his mouth shut just for a moment of quiet, was absolutely speechless. He knew Harry cared for him—he’d have to be a fucking imbecile not to know that, honestly—but hearing him say _I love you_ with enough fondness in his voice to make Nick melt into a puddle of pre-teen girl emotions was enough to make him completely lose control of his basic motor skills. “So stupid,” he muttered to himself finally before wrapping his arms around Harry once again to kiss him like he hadn’t done it in days.

&&&

 

Four months and one week later and Nick was _finally_ going to get to spend some significant time with his boyfriend.

 _Boyfriend._ He still felt a small thrill whenever he said the word, because it was just—it was so _not_ Nick. If anyone had asked him a few months prior, he would have openly cackled in their face, because honestly, Nick with a boyfriend? That was absurd enough, but Nick with _Harry fucking Styles?_ He was dense sometimes, but he wasn’t fucking mental.

Yet here he was, getting ready to go to his birthday party with Harry showering in the other room so they could go together because he’d just gotten home the other day for six weeks and Nick didn’t want to let him out of his sight.

If he wasn’t so happy, he would have been judging himself, but he was happy, deliriously so, so he didn’t really give a fuck, thank you very much.

“Oi! Pop Star! I know you have to look good for your loyal subjects, but think we can hurry this along?” Nick called while he buttoned up his shirt and fixed his sleeves in the mirror.

Harry popped his head out of the doorway and frowned. “Hey,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows. “The only person I want to look good for is in the room with me.”

Nick thought he was used to the way Harry was always saying things like that, but it still pulled something inside of him and made him smile. “Finish getting ready then. Don’t want to keep everyone waiting, do we?”

Harry stuck his tongue out and returned to the bathroom, and Nick laughed because, honestly, he was dating a toddler.

Finally, when Harry emerged, Nick actually had to stop what he was doing just to watch Harry for a moment while he slipped his shoes on. He wasn’t dressed in anything elaborate—a pair of skinny jeans, a black dress shirt with a dark grey t-shirt underneath—but of course it was almost bloody identical to what Nick had on. Tight fitting trousers, a t-shirt with a dress shirt over that, and he and Harry could have been twins.

“If people weren’t second-guessing how much time we spent together before, they’re going to have a field day with this,” Nick said smugly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and nodding at Harry.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and looked down at his outfit then up at Nick. “So what? Let them.”

Nick couldn’t—and wouldn’t—argue that. He shook his head and closed the distance between him and his boyfriend, grabbed his hand, and kissed Harry.

“What was that for?” Harry asked with a smile.

Nick shrugged. “’S my birthday, I can kiss who I want.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Better not be kissing anyone else.”

“Dunno, Pop Star, maybe your lips just won’t satisfy tonight, yeah?”

Almost before Nick even finished the sentence, Harry was grabbing Nick behind the neck and pulling him close, kissing him hard and nipping at his bottom lip before licking into his mouth, swallowing the small, surprised noise Nick made. When he was satisfied, Harry pulled back with a smug look on his face and Nick whined at the loss of contact. “Sure about that then?” he said, his voice low.

“My boyfriend is a bloody _menace!_ ” Nick whined. “It’s my _birthday._ You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

Harry laughed and leaned in, kissing him quickly before bringing his mouth to Nick’s ear. “I’d like to think I’ll be _very_ nice to you later, yeah?”

Oh, yes, Nick’s boyfriend was _definitely_ a menace.

When they got to the club, they went in through the back per Nick’s demands. He said he didn’t want to deal with the crowd out front, which was partly true.

But the thing was, Harry hadn’t come out yet, and Nick was trying his hardest not to obsess over it too much. It wasn’t his place, and he didn’t care if the whole world knew they were together or not. All that mattered was that they were happy. Sure, Nick would have loved to be able to hold his boyfriend’s hand while they were out in public, or to kiss him whenever he bloody wanted, but he figured all in good time. When Harry was ready, he’d be there to support him, but until then he was just happy they had each other.

The party was nice, and Nick loved every second of it. There was enough alcohol to satisfy all of England, Nick was sure, and dancing, and karaoke, and laughing, and it was ridiculous. Nick’s favorite part, though, was that Harry stayed by his side the entire night. Not once did he leave Nick, and even in his drunken haze he knew how much that meant.

But eventually all of the tequila Nick could stand got drank, and people had to leave because it was the middle of the week and they had work in the morning, so with Harry’s help the two of them said their goodbyes and stumbled out of the club.

Nick didn’t even realize where they were going until they were out in the front of the club with flash after flash going off, sobering Nick up almost completely. “ _Harold,_ ” he hissed, trying to pull himself away from Harry a bit instead of hanging onto him like his life depended on it.

Harry just grinned and clutched his hand harder. “Yeah?”

And yeah, Nick was drunk, but not drunk enough to at least sort of know what was happening. “What are you—“ he asked, fumbling over his words because, honestly, his heart was in his throat and he had no idea what was happening.

Harry just smiled. “I love you,” he mouthed, and then leaned in, wrapped his hand around Nick’s neck, and kissed him with everything he had. It wasn’t obscene, it wasn’t ridiculous, it was just sweet and nice and _perfect._ Nick may have been drunk, but he knew Harry hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all night and was as sober as a baby, so he knew this—whatever _this_ was—was all Harry.

Everything that happened after was a blur, because before Nick knew it the two of them were getting thrust into a car with tinted windows and they were driving off.

Nick didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at Harry, whose smile was big enough to warm Nick through and through. “What?” Harry asked, still smiling.

“ _What_ ” he says, as if he didn’t just snog me in front of the club for the entire bloody world to see!” Nick hissed, finally finding his words. “What the _hell_ , Haz?”

Harry’s face faltered at Nick’s tone, and he wanted to take it back because he wasn’t _mad_ —how the hell could he be? he felt like his heart was going to burst right out of his chest—he just had no idea what was going on. “I just—was that not okay?” Harry asked, and oh God, Nick was so in love with him.

He leaned forward and kissed Harry hard, biting his lip and licking into his mouth and wanting to be closer to him than he’d ever been. He would have sat in Harry’s lap if he had the room, or pulled Harry onto him, but he figured that could wait. When they finally pulled apart, Harry was breathing heavily and Nick was smiling and _God_ , he was so in love with his Pop Star.

“I love you,” he said in between breaths. “But what was that? I mean, honestly Harry, did you think this through?”

He nodded adamantly. “Had it planned for a few weeks now actually. That was—it’s my birthday present to you?” he said finally, his voice sheepish.

Nick grabbed Harry’s hand and held it with both of his own. “So that—you’re coming out? For me?”

Harry shook his head, knowing how that sounded. “No, I’m coming out because what’s the point not being true to myself? It just happens that you’re an added bonus.”

Nick kissed him again, whispering _I love you_ against Harry’s lips like he couldn’t get enough.

When they got back to Nick’s, they stumbled inside tangled in each other and fell into Nick’s bed together. When they finally fell asleep a few hours later, Nick could hardly think straight through the millions of _I love you_ ’s floating through his brain, and when he looked down at Harry, whose arms were wrapped tight around Nick and holding him like he couldn’t get close enough, Nick’s heart swelled.

Six months ago, if  anyone had asked if Nick would be in a committed relationship for his twenty-ninth birthday, he would have laughed in their face. But now, looking down at his Pop Star snoring softly into his shoulder, he knew he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

&&&

 

Thursday morning, every major gossip website and tabloid was speculating about Harry Styles’ sexuality and _The Infamous Gryles Kiss_.

Thursday morning, Harry met with the necessary people to take care of what he needed to take care of while Nick was at work.

When Nick got done with the show, Harry showed up to bring him home and when they stepped out of the studio, Harry kissed him again. Nick didn’t know it then, but before he’d picked Nick up he’d made an informal statement on Twitter addressing their situation.

_**@Harry_Styles:** I am in fact in a committed relationship with Nick Grimshaw. We thank you for your support, and I love you all! .xx_

Nick would laugh at him later for his statement, but he secretly loved it, loved how the tweet alone got over 60,000 favorites within minutes of Harry tweeting it—and even loved how they were a bloody trending topic for about a week straight.

“I sort of fancy you, you know that?” Nick said as he climbed into Harry’s Range Rover.

Harry smiled and grabbed Nick’s hand, tracing his thumb over the anchor on his wrist a few times before nodding. “Sort of fond of you too, babe. You’re my home.”

The warm feeling in the pit of Nick’s stomach would never get old to him, no matter how many times Harry told him how he felt each day or when he called Nick babe or when he said something like [i]you’re my home.[/i] Because it was true, for both of them, and it was ridiculously nice to finally be able to say that.

“You’re my home too, Pop Star. You’re my home, too.”


End file.
